Ãcariya Mun had already lived for
five years at Ban Nong Pheu monastery when, in
March of 1949 – precisely on the fourteenth
day of the fourth lunar month – his body began
exhibiting signs indicating the approaching end of
his life. By then, he was 79 years old. On that day
there appeared the first symptoms of an illness that
was to worsen until it finally brought to a close
his long life – a day that sent tremors through
Ãcariya Mun’s body elements and shock waves through
the community of his close disciples. Initially
there was a light fever, accompanied by a slight
cough. But as the days passed, the symptoms steadily
worsened, never showing the slightest improvement.
Obviously abnormal, the constant decline in his
health worried us all. But Ãcariya Mun himself
clearly knew that this was to be his final illness –
an illness no type of medical treatment could cure.
He informed his disciples of this from the very
beginning and from then on never showed any interest
in medicines. On the contrary, he seemed annoyed
when someone brought him medicines to take. This he
expressed in no uncertain terms:

“This is the illness of an old man
who has reached the end of the line. No matter what
kind of medicine I take, it will never be cured. All
that’s left is the breath in my body, biding its
time, awaiting the day it finally ceases. I’m like a
dead tree that’s still standing: no matter how much
you fertilize and water that tree, it is impossible
to make it sprout and flower again. This old dead
tree now stands anticipating the day it will topple
over and go crashing to the ground, felled by this
very same illness. I thoroughly investigated my
condition long before the symptoms appeared. That is
why I’ve been warning you all: Don’t be complacent.
Hurry up, intensify your efforts now while I am
still alive. In that way, I can help you resolve any
problems you may have in the meantime. Missing this
opportunity now may cause you to waste a lot of time
in the future. I will not be here much longer. Soon
I shall depart this world, in keeping with the law
of impermanence that follows constantly on the heels
of all conditioned things without exception. Three
years ago I warned you that I would not last more
than three years. What more can I say? What I’ve
told you, I know to be inevitable. The work that the
round of saÿsãra performs inside the minds and
bodies of human beings and animals alike continues
unerringly along its natural course. In just a few
months time it will complete its final task within
this body of mine. How can it possibly alter its
appointed task?”

With each passing day his symptoms
gradually worsened. Showing no interest in medicines
of any kind, he was clearly annoyed when people came
and urged him to try this remedy or that cure. But
so many people arrived offering ‘cures’ that he had
a hard time resisting them all. Each one touted the
effectiveness of the medicine he was offering,
insisting that if he took it he was sure to get
better, for it had already cured many others. They
all pleaded with him to try their medicines out of
compassion for them. They wanted him to get better
so he could continue to be of service to his many
followers for a long time to come. He often warned
them that medicines were useless for his illness;
that only firewood for cremating the corpse was
appropriate. But the more he protested, the more
they beseeched him. So occasionally he yielded to
their appeals and took a small dose of medicine. He
was concerned that people would feel disappointed if
they believed he had given up on his condition.

As news of his illness spread across
the region, people began arriving from all
directions to visit him at Ban Nong Pheu. Traveling
from locations far and near in all kinds of weather,
a steady flow of monks and laity poured in like the
waters from a monsoon rain. Ban Nong Pheu was
situated in a valley surrounded by thick forest some
twelve to fifteen miles from the main highway
between Udon Thani and Sakon Nakhon. Though people
had to travel by foot to see him, they appeared
undaunted by the distance and the difficulties it
posed. Only the elderly, unable to make the journey
on foot, hired ox carts to take them there.

By nature, Ãcariya Mun always
preferred to live alone quietly. Even the monks
living with him were discouraged from bothering him
unless absolutely necessary. Consequently, receiving
large numbers of well-wishers disagreed with his
natural inclination to remain aloof from such
tiresome affairs. When sick, he had always been
reluctant to allow even his close disciples to take
care of him, though he did make certain exceptions.
When he did allow it, the monks attending to his
personal needs had to be very circumspect in his
presence. Only monks deemed trustworthy were
selected for these duties. As his health
deteriorated, a discerning senior monk was appointed
to oversee all arrangements for his health care.
Since by nature Ãcariya Mun was very thorough and
meticulous, this monk had to decide what action was
appropriate in each instance and then see that the
other monks carefully followed this regimen. For
this reason, monks attending on him were carefully
chosen to ensure their behavior did not conflict
with his subtle temperament.

The lay people and the monks,
arriving from various locations around the region
with hopes of seeing him to pay their respects, were
first asked to wait until an appropriate time could
be arranged. When the monk handling these matters
felt the time was right, he entered Ãcariya Mun’s
hut to inform him about the visitors. Once
permission was granted, the visitors were taken to
see him. After Ãcariya Mun had spoken to them for
awhile, they respectfully took their leave and
departed. The monks at Ban Nong Pheu monastery had
always arranged visits in this manner for those who
came to see him. Visitors were invariably asked to
wait until permission was granted; and then, they
were escorted to his hut in groups at the time which
he had agreed to receive them. The exceptions to
this rule were senior disciples, who enjoyed a
special, close relationship with him, being ãcariyas
in their own right. Once Ãcariya Mun was informed of
their arrival and had given his consent, the
ãcariyas went straight in to converse with him in
private.

As the months passed, his condition
continued to deteriorate. Although the symptoms
never became very severe, he always felt unwell. His
illness resembled an armed insurgency gradually
escalating into a full scale war, consuming
everything in its path, and leaving its victim
decimated. His disciples were deeply affected. He
occupied a special place at the center of their
hearts, so his failing health left them all
distraught. Feeling sad, even dejected, they were
not so cheerful as before.
Every conversation began with the topic of Ãcariya
Mun’s illness and moved on to something else, only
to return to his health again as the conversation
ended.

Despite failing health, Ãcariya Mun
did not neglect his teaching obligations. His
compassionate concern for his disciples never
diminished, though he was no longer able to expound
the Dhamma in such detail as before. Having finished
his talk, he briefly answered questions and then
promptly adjourned the meeting to return to his hut
for a rest. Incredibly though, while sitting there
expounding Dhamma to the assembled monks, he showed
no signs of his illness. He spoke with
characteristic resoluteness in a sharp, lively
fashion, his voice booming loudly as if he never had
been sick. When he wanted to emphasize a point, the
tempo of his voice quickened dramatically to drive
the point home. He held nothing back as he spoke.
His whole demeanor belied his true condition. Only
after he finished speaking did we all realize how
exhausted he was. So we quickly adjourned to allow
him a chance to rest.

One evening shortly before his
illness began, on the occasion of Mãgha Pýjã, the
full moon day of February 1949, Ãcariya Mun began
expounding Dhamma to the assembled monks at eight
P.M. and did not finish until midnight, speaking for
a total of four hours. The power of the Dhamma he
delivered that night truly amazed the whole assembly
of dhutanga monks who were gathered for that
occasion. To those listening, the entire universe
appeared to have vanished without a trace, replaced
in their awareness by the flow of his
all-encompassing Dhamma, radiating forth in every
direction. He began by paying tribute to the 1,250
Arahants who had come together spontaneously on this
full moon day in the time of the Buddha.

“On this day 1,250 Arahants assembled
spontaneously at the Lord Buddha’s residence without
prior arrangement. They were all individuals of the
utmost purity, completely free of kilesas. The Lord
Buddha himself delivered the Pãåimokkha exhortation
that day, making
the occasion a visuddhi uposatha; that is, an
uposatha observed among monks who are all absolutely
pure. Compare that assembly with the one gathered
here today. You listen to the Pãåimokkha being
recited among monks who are all absolutely tainted –
not one of you is completely free of kilesas. It is
dismaying to think that, having ordained as a monk,
each of you is a son of the same Buddha as those
Arahant disciples. Yet, in your case it is just an
empty claim lacking any real substance; like a
person having the name ‘Goodman’ who, on the
contrary, is so weighed down under his own evil
doings he can hardly move. In the Buddha’s day,
monks practiced the Dhamma truly and so became true
monks with a true understanding which
concealed nothing
false. Today, the fame and celebrity of some
monks is so great that they rival the sun and the
moon, yet their actions sink to the depths of avïci.
Where will they ever find virtue, truth, and purity?
They merely accumulate a mass of kilesas and create
the evil kamma that goes with them. Since monks
today are not engaged in uprooting the kilesas from
their hearts, how can visuddhi uposatha possibly
arise? Once ordained, they are satisfied with their
exalted status as Buddhist monks, taking for granted
that this makes them models of virtue. But they have
no idea what the true virtues of a Buddhist monk
really are. If they understood the meaning of the
Pãåimokkha exhortation that the Lord Buddha
delivered, they would know the true nature of
virtue. He condensed the essential meaning of virtue
into this concise statement: Refrain from all evil,
develop goodness and wisdom in abundance, and purify
the mind until it is bright and clear. This is the
essence of the Buddha’s teaching.

“Refraining from evil, what does
it mean? Some people refrain from acting in evil
ways but still speak in evil ways. Others may not
act or speak in evil ways but still like to think in
evil ways. They continue to amass evil within
themselves from dawn to dusk. Waking up the next
morning, they resume – amassing more evil. So it
continues, day in and day out, and they are not
interested in reflecting upon their actions.
Convinced they are already virtuous people, they
wait around expecting a state of purity to arise
from virtue that exists in name only. So they never
find a state of purity; instead, they find only
defilement and disquiet. This is bound to happen,
for anyone intent on looking for trouble is sure to
find it. What else would they find? There is no
shortage of such things in the conventional world we
live in.”

This was Ãcariya Mun’s way of
explaining the underlying, natural principles of
virtue to practicing monks in the hope that they
would gain a profound insight into the Truth. He
then went on to explain the way of practice that
begins with samãdhi and wisdom and ends with the
ultimate attainment – absolute freedom. Discussing
all areas of practice fully and openly, his
exposition that day held nothing back. But, since
much of what he said has already been covered in
previous talks, I shall not elaborate any further
here. The assembly of monks sat perfectly still the
entire time he spoke, no one making the slightest
sound to interrupt the cadence of his voice as he
delivered this eloquent discourse.

As he finished speaking, he made a
similar remark to the one he previously made at Wat
Chedi Luang monastery in Chiang Mai. He said,
in effect,
that this talk would be the ‘final encore’ of his
old age – never would he give another such talk. His
words that night were prophetic, because from that
day on he never gave another profound and lengthy
exposition of Dhamma. One month later his illness
began, and his health steadily declined until he
finally passed away.

Despite the physical difficulties he
suffered as a result of that
degenerative
disease, he insisted on making the effort to
walk to the village for almsround and continued
eating only one meal a day from his alms bowl, as he
always had. He did not simply abandon these
practices. Eventually, when he felt that he could no
longer walk the entire distance, he made an effort
to walk at least halfway through the village before
returning to the monastery. Seeing that so much
walking caused him great difficulty, lay supporters
and senior monks conferred and decided to invite him
to walk only as far as the monastery gate, where
offerings of food would be placed in his bowl. Had
they requested him to abstain altogether from going
on almsround, he would surely have demurred – so
long as he was still physically able, he felt
obliged to continue. So everyone had to respect his
wishes. They wanted to avoid doing anything that
might conflict with his resolute temperament. He
continued walking to the front gate for alms until
he became too weak to make it there and back. At
that point, he began walking only as far as the
refectory to collect alms. Only when he could no
longer walk at all did he stop going for alms. Even
then, he continued to eat just one meal a day, which
he took in his alms bowl. The rest of us had to
respect his wishes each time. We were all amazed at
the endurance of this noble sage who, refusing to
forsake his fighting spirit, conceded nothing to the
kilesas.

As for the rest of us, we would
probably be so dispirited at the very first sign of
sickness that someone would have to carry us to the
refectory to eat. It is truly disgraceful: the
kilesas always laughing at us as we lie hopelessly
on their chopping block, waiting for them to shred
us to pieces like so much raw meat. What a pathetic
sight! Here we are full-fledged human beings
willingly putting ourselves at the mercy of the
kilesas. All of us who carry this shame on our
conscience should stop and reflect on Ãcariya Mun’s
mode of practice. We can then adopt it to safeguard
us in our struggle with these defilements. In that
way, we will always remain faithful to our Buddhist
principles – instead of just being the kilesas’
whipping boys.

Eventually, Ãcariya Mun’s condition
became so serious that the rest of us felt obliged
to undertake certain precautions. We quietly
arranged for groups of three or four monks to keep a
vigil every night sitting beneath his hut. We
arranged this ourselves without informing him,
though he may have been intuitively aware of it. We
were concerned he might forbid us to do it,
reasoning that it was a burden on the monks and thus
an unnecessary nuisance. Every night small groups of
monks took turns, sitting silently beneath his hut
in continuous shifts that lasted until dawn. Each
group stayed for several hours until it was replaced
by the next. This routine was already well
established by the beginning of the rainy season
retreat that year. When it became obvious that his
illness had become very debilitating, we conferred
among ourselves and decided to request his
permission for two monks to be allowed to sit in
meditation on his verandah. With his consent, two
monks were always seated on his verandah from then
on, and two more were seated down below. Besides the
regular shifts of monks who kept watch on him,
others were quietly overseeing the whole arrangement
throughout the night.

The end of the rains retreat saw an
increasing number of senior disciples begin arriving
from their own retreat locations to pay him their
respects and help look after his needs. By that time
his condition was critical, and becoming more and
more unstable by the day. Eventually, he called all
his disciples together one day to remind them of the
proper way to handle his impending death.

“My illness has now reached its final
stage. It is time to think about what will happen
when I die – preparations must be made in time. As
I’ve told you many times, I am going to die – this
much is certain. My death is destined to be a major
event affecting not only the general public, but
animals as well. I want you to know that I do not
wish to die here at Ban Nong Pheu. If I die here, it
will be necessary to slaughter large numbers of farm
animals in order to feed all the people coming to my
funeral. I am only one dying person, but the death
of this one person will in turn cause the deaths of
a great many animals. Crowds of people will travel
here to attend my funeral, but there’s no market in
this village where foodstuffs can be purchased.
Since ordaining as a monk I have never for a moment
considered doing harm to any animal, to say nothing
of killing them. Compassion has always been the
foundation of my conscious existence. I am
continuously extending the spirit of loving kindness
and dedicating the fruits of my merit to all living
beings without exception. I do not want to see any
animal lose the life it cherishes so dearly. I could
never countenance having my own death become a
source of enmity between myself and the world’s
animals.

“I want you to take me to Sakon
Nakhon so I can die there. That town has a large
marketplace, so my death should not affect the lives
of so many animals. I have yet to die, but monks and
lay people are already arriving here in a steady
stream, their numbers increasing each day – clear
evidence of the scale of the problem. Now think of
how many people will come when I finally do die.
Many people will mourn my death, but that is not my
concern. I am ready for death – whenever and
wherever it happens. I have no regrets about parting
with my body. Having already investigated it
thoroughly, I know that it is merely a combination
of elements that have joined together temporarily,
only to break apart again and revert back to their
original elemental nature. What is there to be
attached to? What I am concerned about is
safeguarding the local farm animals so they won’t
have to perish as well. I don’t want to see animal
carcasses laid out for sale all up and down the
roadsides here. That would be extremely regrettable.
Fortunately, it’s not too late to remedy the
situation. I am asking that you arrange for my
departure as soon as possible for the sake of all
those animals that would otherwise die as a result
of my death. It is my express wish that their lives
be protected. Does anyone have anything to say? If
so, speak up now.”

Not a single person in the group
spoke up. An atmosphere of quiet despair pervaded
the assembly. As the Buddha said: yampiccaÿ na
labhati tampi dukkhaÿ: not getting what one wants is
truly a form of dukkha. Everyone realized that
whether he went to Sakon Nakhon or remained at Ban
Nong Pheu, in either case the situation was hopeless
– he was going to die. So the meeting remained
silent. There was just no way to resolve this
dilemma. In the end, everyone willingly agreed to
his request.

Prior to the meeting, the residents
of Ban Nong Pheu village had made it known that they
would feel honored to have him die there. “We will
manage all the funeral arrangements ourselves. We
may be quite poor here but our hearts are rich in
faith and respect for Ãcariya Mun. We will do
everything we possibly can to arrange the funeral
here. We won’t let anyone look down on us saying
that the villagers of Ban Nong Pheu couldn’t cremate
the body of even one ãcariya – instead, it had to be
done elsewhere. We don’t want that kind of
reputation. Whatever happens, all of us here are
ready to offer ourselves to Ãcariya Mun, body and
soul. He will remain our cherished refuge until the
day he dies. We can’t allow anyone to take him away.
We will resist to the last breath any attempt to do
so.”

So when hearing Ãcariya Mun’s
explanation for being taken away, their
disappointment was palpable, but they felt they
couldn’t object. Although they venerated him so much
their sadness and disappointment at hearing his
reasons nearly broke their hearts, they were forced
to accept his decision. They truly deserve a lot of
sympathy. Their willingness to sacrifice everything
in their devotion to Ãcariya Mun is a gesture I will
always treasure. I’m sure that all of my readers
feel the same way.

Many of Ãcariya Mun’s most senior
disciples attended the meeting, aware as he spoke
that he must be moved as soon as possible. After he
had announced his decision and stated his reasons,
and there being no dissenting voices, the monks and
laity who were present all agreed to construct a
stretcher suitable to carry him on the long journey
from Ban Nong Pheu to Sakon Nakhon. The next day, a
large crowd of lay supporters and monks brought the
stretcher to his hut, awaiting his departure. An
immense sorrow overcame everyone that day. They
realized they were about to lose somebody whom they
so deeply cherished and revered. It was a sorrow so
great that local people and monks alike could barely
contain their emotions.

After the morning meal was over and
everyone awaited in readiness for the journey to
start, emotions began to run high in the crowd
surrounding his hut as the local people, gathered to
see him off, gave vent to their despair one last
time. Many monks and novices swelled the crowd; they
too felt the strain. The deep sadness depressing
their hearts slowly welled up, and tears flowed
quietly, dampening their cheeks. At that moment
Ãcariya Mun appeared, carried by a group of his
senior disciples – a moment of further heightened
emotion. As the monks carried him down the steps and
placed him on the stretcher, the mixture of
affection, respect, and despair that everyone had
kept bottled-up inside freely poured out: men,
women, monks, and novices were no longer able to
hold back their flood of tears. Onlookers wept
openly, expressing an unrestrained and deep sense of
sorrow. I myself could not avoid getting caught up
in the despondent mood pervading that sad occasion,
despite the fact that I was accompanying Ãcariya Mun
when he left. The air filled with sounds of weeping
and crying. People called out, begging Ãcariya Mun,
“Please get better: Don’t pass away from this world
leaving us forever in unbearable sadness.” They were
almost inconsolable at that point. In his great
compassion, he sympathized with how poor their
community was. This they knew; yet they couldn’t
help but feel terribly miserable watching the
cherished treasure over whom they had faithfully
kept watch for so many years slip away from them
forever. He was departing now, and there was nothing
they could do to prevent it.

As Ãcariya Mun was carried past, the
sounds of their heartfelt laments surged along the
path, a tidal wave of grief inundating the hearts of
those who lined the route. As he passed by,
everything appeared gray and bleak, as though their
lives had suddenly been snuffed out. Even the
grasses and trees, though insensible to the
unfolding scene before them, appeared to wither up
and die in response. As Ãcariya Mun left the
peaceful shade of the forest sanctuary where he and
his disciples had lived so contentedly – a place
where so many ordinary people had come to find
shelter over the years – the monastery suddenly felt
deserted, even though many monks still remained.
Suddenly it no longer had that enormous tree with
the thick, broad foliage that had always given so
much peace and comfort to all who came to shelter
there. The heartrending, anguished cries of those
wanting to offer their undying devotion to the
sãsana was an immensely sad, forlorn sound indeed.
They were witnessing the departure of the one man
who embodied the high ideals of their unshakable
religious faith.

Long after the procession had passed
through the village and the sounds of inconsolable
grief had faded into the distance, hundreds of monks
and lay people continued to walk behind his
stretcher, their long, drawn faces mirroring the
somber, cheer-less spirit of the occasion. Walking
along in complete silence like mourners in a funeral
procession of a close friend or relative, they did
their best to come to terms with the heartbreak. No
one spoke a word, but in their hearts they pondered
long and deeply on their shattered hopes, the
overwhelming feeling being that all was now lost. It
seemed then as if we were taking his corpse away to
dispose of it, even though he was still very much
alive. The realization that all hope was now gone,
that he would never return again, had fully sunk in.
The more we thought about it, the sadder we became.
Yet we couldn’t stop thinking about it. We all
walked along in a kind of melancholy daze,
contemplating thoughts of despair.

I must confess to being shamefully
inadequate in this regard – the whole journey I
thought only of how I was about to lose my one true
refuge in life. No longer would there be someone to
rely on when questions arose in my practice, as they
so often did. The distance from Ban Nong Pheu to the
district seat of Phanna Nikhom was approximately
fifteen miles; but the long hours of walking passed
almost unnoticed. Walking behind him, knowing he was
dying, I thought only of how much I was going to
miss my teacher. I desperately wanted him to
continue living at the time. His final days
corresponded to a crucial stage in my own meditation
practice, a time when I had many unresolved problems
to work out. No matter how much I pondered this
predicament, I always arrived at the same
conclusion: my dependence on him would have to be
terminated soon. This made the future look bleak.

His condition remained calm and
stable throughout the long journey – he did not
display any obvious signs of ill health. In fact, he
appeared to be lying fast asleep, though of course
he wasn’t sleeping at all. Around midday, the
procession reached a cool, shady grove of trees. We
asked Ãcariya Mun’s permission to take a short rest
for the sake of the large group of people
accompanying him. He immediately asked, “Where are
we now?” The moment I heard his voice I was caught
off guard by a surge of affection and emotional
attachment. Why was I so deeply moved by this
wonderful, welcome sound? It seemed, suddenly, as
though Ãcariya Mun was his old self again.

Is this beloved paragon of the three
worlds truly going to abandon me, a poor orphan
whose heart is about to break? Will his pure heart,
whose kind assistance has always helped to breathe
life into my spirit, really withdraw from my life
and disappear – forever? Such were my immediate
feelings the moment Ãcariya Mun spoke up. Some
people may consider this a somewhat crazy reaction.
But I have no misgivings – I willingly admit this
kind of craziness. For Ãcariya Mun’s sake, I was so
crazy I would gladly have volunteered to die in his
place without the least concern for my own life. Had
it been his wish, I would have happily laid down my
life – no second thoughts. I was prepared at a
moment’s notice to sacrifice my life for his. But,
alas, it was impossible for him to accept any
sacrifice I might be willing to offer. The truth is
that everyone in the world must inevitably travel
the same route: whatever is born must die. There are
no exceptions.

The journey to Sakon Nakhon was
planned in two stages. The first day we walked as
far as Ban Phu monastery in Phanna Nikhom district,
where we were to rest for a few days, allowing
Ãcariya Mun a chance to recuperate before moving on
to Sakon Nakhon. Leaving Ban Nong Pheu at nine
o’clock that morning, the procession eventually
reached Ban Phu monastery shortly before dark. The
journey had taken all day because we followed the
more circuitous route, skirting the edge of the
mountains, to make it easier for him and the many
elderly men and women determined to follow him all
the way. Upon arriving, we invited him to rest in a
low pavilion
where his needs could easily be attended. It was
also a convenient place for monks and lay people to
pay him their respects.

Ãcariya Mun’s sojourn at Ban Phu
monastery dragged on for many days, his condition
steadily worsening the entire time. Meanwhile, each
new day brought visiting crowds of monks and lay
people from the surrounding area. Some even came at
night. All were eager for a chance to meet him and
pay their respects. Though well aware of his
illustrious reputation, most of them had never made
his acquaintance. They had heard the news that he
was certainly a modern-day Arahant who would soon
pass away into Nibbãna. It was rumored that those
who met him would be blessed with good fortune,
while those that didn’t would have lived their lives
in vain. So they were all anxious to benefit by
coming to pay him homage. They did not want to feel
they had wasted their birth as human beings.

The very first morning after arriving
at Ban Phu, Ãcariya Mun demanded to know when
he would be taken to Sakon Nakhon. He told his
disciples that it was not his intention to die at
Ban Phu – they must take him on to Sakon Nakhon
without further delay. His senior disciples replied
that they planned to wait for a short while for him
to recuperate, then they would proceed to Sakon
Nakhon as he requested. So Ãcariya Mun let the
matter drop for awhile. The next day he again asked
the same question. His senior disciples repeated
their reasons and he remained silent, only to bring
it up again later. Time and again he demanded to
know when they would take him to Sakon Nakhon. He
said that, by waiting too long, he would fail to
make it in time.

In the end, they asked him to extend
his stay at Ban Phu monastery for a full ten days.
By the time four or five days had passed, he was
pressing them constantly to take him to Sakon Nakhon.
Each time, his senior disciples either kept silent
or repeated their previous justifications for
staying. Repeatedly he pressed them, scolding them
for waiting so long.

“Are you going to have me die here?!
I’ve told you from the very beginning – I am going
to die in Sakon Nakhon. My time is almost up. Get me
there in a hurry! Don’t wait so long!”

During the final three days, his
demands to be taken to Sakon Nakhon became
increasingly vociferous. During his last night there
he flatly refused to lie down and sleep. Instead, he
urgently called the monks to his bedside and told
them unequivocally that he could not remain alive
much longer. He insisted on being taken that very
night to be sure of arriving in time. He then had us
prop him up, sitting cross-legged in samãdhi and
facing in the direction of Sakon Nakhon. As soon as
he withdrew from samãdhi, he told us to prepare to
leave – he was waiting no longer. We rushed off to
call his senior disciples. They informed him that he
would definitely be taken to Sakon Nakhon the next
morning. Following this assurance, his
sense of urgency
lessened somewhat, but he still refused to go to
sleep, speaking openly about how he felt:

“My time is almost up, I cannot hang
on much longer. It would be better to leave tonight.
In that way, I will be sure to arrive in time for
that critical moment which is now fast approaching.
I have no wish to shoulder the burden of this
flaming mass of body elements any longer. I want to
discard the body once and for all so that I needn’t
be concerned with this great pile of pain and
suffering ever again. I am literally on the verge of
death right now. Don’t you monks realize that I
could die at any minute? My body is completely
useless now. There is no justifiable reason to keep
me in this state of physical torment. All of you
understand my reasons for going to Sakon Nakhon –
that’s why we came here in the first place. So why
do you still insist on delaying my departure? Is
this Sakon Nakhon? Why don’t you take me there
immediately? I want to go right now! What are you
waiting for? What use is a corpse? It’s not useful
for anything, not even for making fish sauce!

“I have already told you: my body has
reached its limit – it simply cannot last any
longer. Isn’t anyone here interested in listening to
me and doing what I say? I have explicitly stated
what I want you to do, still no one seems to listen.
If you insist on adopting such an attitude, how will
you ever discover the Truth? If here in my presence,
while I’m alive, you are so stubborn, refusing to
believe what I say, how will you ever manage to be
good, reasonable people once I’m dead? I know what I
told you to be absolutely true. I have explained the
whole situation to you in a carefully considered,
reasonable manner. Yet, you stubbornly refuse to
comply. I am beginning to lose hope that any of you
will develop the principles of sound judgment needed
to uphold the sãsana.”

Ãcariya Mun was very adamant the last
night at Ban Phu – he absolutely refused to sleep
that whole night. I suspect he was afraid that, in
his condition, he might never wake up again. At the
time none of us there with him could figure out his
reason for staying awake all night. Only later did
the real reason occur to me.

At seven o’clock the next morning,
several trucks from the provincial highway
department arrived to escort Ãcariya Mun to Sakon
Nakhon. Mrs. Num Chuwanon, as head of the escort,
invited him to ride in one of the vehicles. He
readily agreed and asked only whether there were
enough vehicles to carry all of the many monks who
were scheduled to accompany him. He was informed
that three trucks had come. If these were not
sufficient to transport all the monks who wanted to
go, a return trip would be made to pick up the rest.
Understanding the arrangement, Ãcariya Mun remained
silent. After the monks had eaten their meal, a
doctor injected him with a sedative so that he would
not be disturbed by the bumpy ride. In those days,
the roads were quite rough – full of potholes and in
generally poor condition. Having received the
injection, he was placed on a stretcher and carried
out to one of the trucks parked at the edge of the
field, there being no road into the monastery. Soon
after, he began to fall asleep. The convoy of
vehicles then began the trip to Sakon Nakhon,
arriving there at exactly noon.

Upon arrival, he was carried down
from the truck and placed, still sleeping, in a hut
at Wat Suddhawat monastery. He remained asleep the
entire day, not waking until about midnight. Within
an hour of his waking those critical symptoms – of
which he had repeatedly forewarned his seemingly
deaf and blind disciples – became more and more
apparent, as if to say to us all: Now do you see?
This is why I kept insisting that you hurry to bring
me to Sakon Nakhon. I want to quickly rid myself of
this messy heap of suffering. The symptoms are fully
obvious now. If you still don’t understand, then
take a look. If you still don’t believe what I was
telling you, then watch carefully and consider with
all your heart what you see appearing before you at
this moment. Was I telling you the truth or not?
Stop being so deaf, blind, and thoughtless from now
on. Otherwise, you will never find the wisdom needed
to save yourselves. What you are witnessing right
now should inspire you to think deeply – so don’t be
complacent.

Bhãrã have pañcakkhandã: the five
khandhas are indeed a heavy burden. In the very
early hours of the morning he began to take leave of
this heavy burden – this heap of intense suffering
that no truly wise person wants to encounter again
in the future. The monastery was absolutely quiet
that night. No one milled about to disturb the
stillness. Shortly, some important ãcariyas, like
Chao Khun Dhammachedi from Wat Bodhisomphon
monastery in Udon Thani, arrived at his hut, having
come in great haste as soon as they heard the news.
As they entered, they hurriedly sat down in a calm,
composed manner, though their hearts were actually
troubled by the obvious deterioration in his
condition. It was a poignant reminder that he could
pass away at any moment. Monks arriving to monitor
his condition sat silently in three rows facing him.
Important senior disciples, led by Chao Khun
Dhammachedi, sat in the front, the more junior monks
and novices filling the remaining rows. All sat in
complete silence, their eyes fixed on Ãcariya Mun.
Their lower eyelids were moistened by tears they
couldn’t hold back – such was the intensity of their
despair. They knew all hope was lost, for nothing at
all could be done to change the inevitable. They
felt as if their own lives were losing all meaning.

At the beginning, Ãcariya Mun was
lying on his right side in the ‘lion’s posture’.
Fearing this might exhaust him, some monks gently
removed the pillow supporting him so that he came to
rest lying on his back. As soon as he became aware
of this, he tried to shift back to his right side,
but he no longer had the strength to move. As he
struggled to turn on his side, some senior ãcariyas
attempted to reposition the pillow so that it again
supported his back. But noticing how very weak he
was, they decided to stop, fearing that it might
just make matters worse. Consequently, when Ãcariya
Mun finally passed away he was lying neither on his
back nor on his right side, but slightly propped up
somewhere in between. It was simply impossible to
adjust his posture further under the circumstances.
His disciples, mostly monks and novices with a few
lay people, sat in total despair as life slowly
ebbed from his body. So apprehensive were they about
his imminent death, they had almost forgotten to
breathe.

As the minutes passed, his breathing
gradually became softer and more refined. No one
took their eyes off him for it was obvious the end
was fast approaching. His breathing continued to
grow weaker and weaker until it was barely
discernible. A few seconds later it appeared to
cease; but it ended so delicately that no one
present could determine just when he passed away.
His physical appearance revealed nothing abnormal –
so different from the death of the ordinary person.
Despite the fact that all his disciples observed his
final moments with unblinking attention, not one of
them was able to say with any conviction: “That was
precisely the moment when Ãcariya Mun finally took
leave of this dismal world.”

Seeing no apparent signs of life,
Chao Khun Dhammachedi rather tentatively said, “I
think he’s passed away.” At the same time he glanced
down at his watch – it was exactly 2:23 A. M. So
that was taken as the time of death. When death had
been confirmed, the impact of his passing was
reflected in the grief-stricken, tearful faces of
all the monks who sat crowded around the lifeless
body. There followed an anguished few moments of low
coughs and soft, incoherent mutterings before the
whole room sank into a mood of silent despair which
is beyond the power of words to describe. Our hearts
were plunged into unbearable feelings of emptiness;
our bodies sitting there appeared to be mere empty
shells. Several long moments of stilled silence
ensued when the whole world appeared to cease
momentarily while Ãcariya Mun abandoned his
conventional existence and entered into the domain
of Ultimate Happiness where no vestige of
conventional reality could disturb him ever again.

I myself very nearly died of a broken
heart along with him as I sat by his side steeped in
pensive sorrow. I could not manage to shake off the
gloomy, somber mood that clouded my heart as he
departed the world. I could do nothing to alleviate
the extreme pain of the loss I felt. ‘Living dead’
fittingly describes my sense of hopelessness at that
moment.

After a period of silence, his senior
disciples had the monks neatly rearrange his
bedding. They laid out his body there for the time
being, with the understanding that next morning they
would consult together about making further
arrangements. This accomplished, the monks began
filing out of his room. Though a few remained on the
verandah outside the room, most of them went down
below. Even though the whole area surrounding the
hut was illuminated by brightly-lit lanterns, his
disciples stumbled around blindly in dejection,
unsure where they were going. Appearing somnolent,
almost drugged, they wandered aimlessly back and
forth. Several monks actually fainted at the time,
as though they too were about to expire because life
no longer held any meaning for them. The entire
monastic community found itself in a chaotic state
of confusion late that night; all were inconsolable
over the terrible sense of loss they suffered. Monks
milled around absent-mindedly, having no clear idea
where they were going or why. Such was the power of
utter despondency arising from the departure of that
shining beacon which so illuminated their lives and
brightened their hearts. Suddenly, all sense of
comfort and security had evaporated, exposing them
to the uncertainty of living on without a reliable
refuge. This cold, dark constriction in their hearts
left them feeling that nothing substantial remained
in the entire universe, nothing they could hold to
for support. Failing to consider that beings
throughout the universe have always managed to find
a source of refuge, at that moment they appeared to
face a bleak and uncertain future, as if dire
misfortune were engulfing them all. Ãcariya Mun had
been the one, true refuge. To him they could always
confidently entrust themselves, heart and soul,
without reservation.

I mean no disregard to the Buddha,
Dhamma, and Sangha, but at that moment they seemed
somehow very distant, making it difficult to
reestablish them as a viable refuge. They did not
appear to project the same affirmative presence that
Ãcariya Mun did; he was always close at hand and
ready to help resolve our doubts and provide us with
inspiration. Approaching him with pressing problems
that we were unable to solve on our own, these same
burning issues invariably dissolved away the moment
he offered a solution. This salient recollection, so
deeply engraved on my heart, profoundly affected me
when he passed away. I could think of no other
person capable of helping me solve my problems. Who
else could I find with such compassion for me? Who
else’s advice could I trust? I was afraid of being
left alone, depressed, and hopelessly stuck with my
own store of ignorance. Gone were the easy solutions
I had found while living with him. The more I
thought about this dilemma, the more discouraged I
became about finding a safe, painless way out on my
own. In my ignorance, I saw no way forward at that
moment; only misery and despair stared me in the
face. Sitting there in front of his dead body, as
though I myself were dead, I could think of no way
to save myself and relieve my misery. I sat
brooding, a living, breathing ghost, completely
oblivious to time or bodily fatigue. This was the
first time in my life as a monk that I felt so
gloomy, frightened, and confused—and there was no
one to help me, no means of extricating myself from
this distress. Each time I glanced down at Ãcariya
Mun’s still, lifeless body, tears welled up in my
eyes and flowed down my cheeks. I was helpless to
stop them. My chest heaved and sobbed as an
uncontrollable emotion arose and lodged in my
throat, nearly suffocating me.

Eventually I regained enough presence
of mind to reflect inwardly, admonishing myself: Do
I really intend to die of a broken heart right now?
He died free of concerns and attachments, which are
matters of the kilesas. If I were to die now, I
would die as a result of my concerns and
attachments. That would be harmful to me. Neither my
despondency nor my death is of any use to me, or to
Ãcariya Mun. When he was alive, he never taught us
to miss him to the point of death. This kind of
longing is the way of worldly people everywhere.
Even though my reason for missing him is associated
with Dhamma, it is still contaminated by worldly
concerns, and thus hardly worthy of a Buddhist monk.
Such thoughts are especially inappropriate for
someone like me who has set his sights firmly on
achieving the highest level of Dhamma. The Lord
Buddha stated that whoever practices the Dhamma
properly is, in fact, worshipping the Buddha, that
whoever realizes the Dhamma, realizes the Buddha as
well. It is clear that my longing is not in perfect
accord with Dhamma. To be in perfect accord with
Dhamma I must practice precisely what Ãcariya Mun
taught me. This is the correct way for me to show
how much I miss him. Should I die while engaged in
those harsh training methods that he recommended, I
shall feel confident that my death is in harmony
with the principles of Dhamma. This is the only
sensible way to behave. I must not obstruct my own
progress by longing for him in an unreasonable,
worldly manner – I’ll only harm myself.

In this way I regained mindfulness,
allowing reason a chance to intervene and forestall
the maelstrom raging in my heart at the time. And so
I avoided being buried alive in my own futility.